


A Pitstop on the Way to Home

by Mithen



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, meeting as children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: Dean Ambrose first ran away from home when he was nine.  He was trying to make it to California, but only got as far as Davenport Iowa--where the WWF happened to be passing through that day.





	

Dean Ambrose was nine the first time he ran away from home. Though you could hardly call it “running away” when no one was likely to notice you were gone.

You could hardly call it “home,” either.

The Greyhound bus driver didn’t even bat an eye when Dean got on board--by nine Dean had already learned that if you had the money, most people wouldn’t bother you. He’d just shoved his wad of cash at the teller and asked for a ticket as far as he could go. His mother would notice the cigarette money was missing eventually, but he’d be long gone by then, all the way to California where it never got cold and you could live on the beach, surf all day (once he learned how to surf) and sleep under the stars at night. It would be perfect.

* * *

“Hey!” Dean pounded on the bus door. “Let me back on! I gotta get to the beach!”

The bus driver looked profoundly unimpressed and pulled away from the curb so abruptly Dean had to jump backwards. Where the fuck _was_ he? And how was he going to learn to surf if he couldn’t find the beach? He peered around the parking lot until he found a sign telling him he was in “Davenport.” That didn’t help him much. He stood irresolute for a long moment, but eventually started walking with purpose toward what looked like the center of town. He was used to doing things with purpose--people tended to leave you alone if you looked like you knew what you were doing. It was when you looked lost that people decided they could get away with shit. So Dean made sure never to look lost.

He walked for what seemed a really long time, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger that had been growing for hours. He didn’t have any money, so his stomach was just going to have to shut up, it was that simple.

“Shut up,” he muttered to the empty ache at his center as he marched along the broken sidewalk. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” It didn’t seem to be doing any good.

And that was when he saw him.

He was passing a public park, and there was a boy sitting on one of the benches, pigeons scurrying and flocking around his feet. He looked almost the same age as Dean, maybe a little older, with olive-bronze skin and dark hair. He looked kind of like the sort of person Dean imagined would live in California. Dean’s eyes flicked over him, taking in the details with a quick grifter’s pragmatism: good clothes, pretty expensive shoes, a little too big for Dean to safely beat up. More importantly, he was eating one hot dog and had another sitting on the bench next to him.

_Most_ importantly, he looked lost. He looked out of place. He looked like the kind of person who’d be happy to share a spare hot dog with a friend, if he only had one.

Dean plunked himself down on the bench next to the kid. “Hi,” he said.

The kid looked surprised. “Hi,” he said back.

“I’m trying to get to the ocean,” Dean said with his most open, friendly, sunny smile. “Do you know the way?”

The surprise turned to amusement. “You got a long way to go,” he said. His voice was deeper than Dean had expected. “This is Iowa.”

“Oh.” Dean contemplated that with a pang of disappointment. “Is Iowa near California?”

“Not nearly.”

“Oh.” Dean thought about it a little more. “Shit.”

The kid threw back his head and laughed. Dean hated it when people laughed at him. But this laugh didn’t seem mocking, somehow. It seemed to invite Dean in, to include him in the joke. Without really noticing it, Dean moved a little closer to the kid.

“You’re not from here, huh?” the boy said.

Dean shrugged, unwilling to admit it but unable to deny it.

“Me neither. My name’s Roman.” He stuck out his hand.

Dean stared at it.

“Shake hands,” Roman said. “You gotta shake hands, my dad always says so. Shows respect,” he added as if he were quoting someone.

Dean took his hand and moved it up and down cautiously. “Dean,” he said when he realized Roman was waiting for his name.

“You want my other hot dog?” Roman said.

Dean kept his eyes from widening with an effort. He hadn’t even had to ask. He took a huge bite before Roman could change his mind, chewing hastily. Roman was kind of grinning at him. Dean wondered if he’d looked as hungry as he’d felt. He polished off the hot dog and licked his fingers. “Thanks,” he muttered, feeling reluctantly grateful.

“No problem,” Roman said, as if it really wasn’t.

“So, if you’re not from here, why are you here?” 

For the first time, Roman looked uncomfortable. “My cousins are in town. For work. I’m traveling with them.”

“What do they do?”

Roman shrugged. “Stuff.”

“Oh.” Dean didn’t really care what Roman’s cousins did, actually.

“You wanna find an arcade?” Roman said. “I’ve got a bunch of quarters, we could play all afternoon.”

“I’ll beat you,” Dean said to cover up the rush of delight he felt at the idea of hanging out and playing video games. _Dummy._

“Like hell you will,” Roman grinned back, and they were off.

They couldn’t find the arcade, and neither of them was inclined to ask for directions, so they ended up just kicking cans down the street, chasing pigeons, talking about nothing much. Dean could tell that Roman was pretty well-off compared to him, and he was pretty sure Roman knew it too, but he wasn’t snotty about it at all. He was pretty cool, actually.

“Check out that tree,” Dean said, pointing at an oak with huge, spreading branches. “Bet I can climb it faster than you.” But Roman was already taking off running, and Dean swore under his breath as he ran to catch up, cursing his cheap sneakers.

He managed to swing upward just ahead of Roman, finding a nice wide branch to perch on and look out over Davenport. Roman sat down beside him a few seconds later, swinging his feet. “Nice view,” he said.

And that’s when Dean heard this weird sound, like rubbery springs. He looked back behind them to see a trampoline in the next house’s backyard, with a dark-haired kid about his age jumping up and down on it. As Dean watched, the kid bounced a few times, then tossed himself in the air and and did some kind of backflip, his body curving into an arc before he landed.

“Holy crap,” Roman breathed, and then he was scrambling out of the tree. “Hey,” he yelled as he dangled off the bottom branch. “Hey.”

The kid stared at them both as Dean let go of the bottom branch and ran to catch up to Roman. “Yeah?” he said warily.

“That was a damn fine moonsault,” Roman said.

The kid’s eyes lit up and he threw out his chest. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“What’s a moonsault?” Dean asked, feeling a sudden pang as Roman grinned at this other kid.

“It’s a pro wrestling move,” the kid said. “I’m gonna be a wrestler someday. I’m gonna be _the best_ wrestler someday.” He grinned down at them from the trampoline, crossing his arms. “I’m Seth.”

Dean looked at Roman’s admiring eyes. Then he clambered up onto the trampoline, ignoring Seth’s startled squawk. “Teach me how to do that,” he said.

* * *

“That’s not bad,” Seth said a couple of hours later, doing that kip-up thing. “You got that running bulldog down pat.”

“You’re a natural, Dean,” said Roman from his perch on the porch steps.

Dean felt slightly out of breath, but also thrilled. He was a natural at something. He was _good_ at this.

“Aren’t you gonna let me show you some tricks, Roman?” Seth asked. “Don’t tell me you’re not into wrestling, you know what a moonsault is.”

“I’m not into wrestling,” Roman said. “I know what it is, sure, but I ain’t got no desire to be a wrestler. I’m gonna be a football star.”

“Well, you got the shoulders for it,” Seth said. “But football isn’t as much fun as wrestling.”

“Nothing’s as fun as wrestling,” Dean announced with the fervor of the new convert. “I wanna go to a show.”

“Oh man,” Seth dropped down onto the trampoline next to him. “The WWF’s in town today, too. But I couldn’t afford the tickets, so I can’t go.” He sighed and threw himself backwards, arms spread out. “It’s like the _worst thing_ that’s _ever_ happened to me.”

Privately Dean thought Seth might be a little overly-dramatic. But on the other hand, he couldn’t resist taking his turn to show off, just a bit. “I bet I can get us in there,” he said.

“Uh,” Roman said, sounding dubious, but Seth was sitting up with his eyes shining.

“Really?”

“Really and truly,” Dean said, climbing down from the trampoline. “But it’s a risk, you know. If we get caught, we’re gonna get in trouble.” Seth looked less enthusiastic, and Dean felt his advantage slipping away. “But it’s your only chance to see the show,” he said. “Are you in?”

Seth hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “I’m in.”

Dean looked at Roman, who shrugged. “I guess I’m in.”

“You gotta promise that if one of us gets caught, we don’t rat out the others, okay? All of us together,” Dean said, and stuck out his fist, scowling in (he hoped) a properly solemn manner.

After a moment, the other two put out their fists as well, and all three touched their hands together.

* * *

Dean had sneaked into so many movie theaters in his life; could a wrestling show be much different? It was a bit of a challenge, but after carefully casing the place and choosing his moment, all three of them were safely on the other side of the security guards and slipping into the cheap seats up near the rafters. 

“This is _so cool,_ ” Seth muttered, although he was glancing around uneasily, 

Roman had pulled his hood up and was slumped down in his seat, looking a little bored. “It’s okay,” he said.

Dean propped his feet up on the empty chair in front of them. The crowd below them was seething and he wondered for a moment if he could lift a wallet or two in the confusion, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to get Seth and Roman in trouble; they seemed like nice kids who wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do if the police came after them.

And then all thoughts of turning a profit disappeared when the lights suddenly went down and a roar went up from the crowd.

The first people to the ring were dressed in red shirts and black pants, and some kind of marching music played as they walked in. The crowd was booing them, and Seth joined in loudly. “The Quebecers,” he said when Dean shot him a questioning look. “They suck.”

“They look stupid,” said Dean, and Roman sank a little lower in his seat. 

“This is all stupid,” Roman muttered. “I shouldn’t have let you drag me here.”

“Hey!” Seth scowled, and looked like he was on the verge of chewing Roman out when suddenly the lights went out, plunging the arena into darkness, and some _really cool_ music started. It had drums and birds chirping, and Dean found himself on the edge of his seat, peering down, wishing he were closer to see--

His eyes widened as two guys came to the ring. They were bare-chested, their skin gleaming under necklaces of shells, their legs wrapped in some kind of colorful cloth and their long dark hair pulled back. They got into the ring with easy grace, and touched their hands together in something that was half dance, half salute, and Dean felt his heart turn over: _just like me and Roman and Seth._

“Oh wow,” he said, and realized he was standing up, his hands on the balcony rail. “Oh wow.”

“Don’t,” muttered Roman. He’d pulled his hood more tightly around his face. “God. Don’t laugh.”

“ _Laugh?_ ” Dean practically yelled. “Why would I laugh? They’re awesome!”

Seth shrugged. “They ain’t the Rockers, but they’re pretty cool,” he agreed.

Roman blinked at them.

“Look at them!” Dean said, waving his arms. “They’re badass!”

Roman ducked his head and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “They kinda are, aren’t they,” he said.

“You bet your _ass_ they are,” Dean said. “And what’s more--”

He was just getting started on how cool they were when a large hand suddenly reached over and grabbed his wrist, and Dean found himself staring into a security guard’s face.

“Care to show us your tickets, son?” said the guard.

Dean froze. Then he grinned widely at the guard, making desperate gestures behind his back at Seth and Roman: _get out of here, run!_ Seth was breathing heavily, frozen in place; the kid had probably never even gotten detention before, he wasn’t going to be able to handle this. Roman had stood up, but was making no move to leave. _Get out of here, you idiots!_ Dean wanted to hiss at them both.

“Tickets, sir? I’ve got them right here in my pocket, I’m sure,” he explained, rummaging slowly in his pocket, trying to keep the guard’s attention. If he could just keep him distracted, surely Roman would figure out he needed to grab Seth and run--

“Alan,” Roman said with a note of resignation in his voice. “They’re with me.”

He threw back his hood and the guard smiled at him.

“Roman! Well, why didn’t you just say so!”

* * *

“You didn’t tell us!” Seth whispered loudly as the guard ushered them backstage. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I was embarrassed, okay?” Roman muttered as he waved hello to a guy with a toothpick in his mouth, who nodded familiarly at him.

_”You were embarrassed that your cousins work with Razor Ramon?”_ Seth sounded like he might just explode.

“I was embarrassed that--look, my cousins are the Headshrinkers, okay? My father and uncle were the Wild Samoans. It’s...it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“It’s kind of the _coolest thing ever,”_ Dean corrected him.

Roman looked at him, his face suddenly almost shy. “You really think so?”

“I really think so!” Dean yelled.

“Would you guys like to meet them?”

_”Would I?”_ Seth and Dean shouted in unison.

* * *

“That was _incredible_ ,” Seth sighed, scarfing down a handful of fries. “I shook Shawn Michaels’s hand, Dean! Did you see that? I shook his hand!”

“I saw it,” said Dean, amused. He didn’t know any of the guys he’d just met, but he could tell it was a big deal to Seth. He glanced over to where Roman was practically glowing with barely-suppressed pride. And not just to Seth. “It was super cool. But the Headshrinkers were the coolest.”

Roman turned a smile on him that made Dean’s heart do funny things. “They _are_ cool, aren’t they?”

Dean took a long slurp from his soda to recover himself. “Yep,” he said.

“I’m gonna be in the WWF someday,” Seth announced. “I’m gonna be the best wrestler in the _world._ ”

Dean was pretty sure you needed connections and money and shit to get to the WWF. Not the kind of stuff a brat from Cincinnati was likely to have. He didn’t care so much about the prestige anyway. What he wanted was the rush and the power of it, the grace and the beauty and the brotherhood. He figured he could get that somewhere. Somehow. “Knock ‘em dead, Seth,” he said, and Roman smiled at him again, and Dean felt like he’d totally won.

* * *

The bus station was nearly-abandoned. It was almost midnight. Seth had slipped back home in the dusk after a last comradely fist-bump. Roman looked down at his feet and said “So…”

“So,” Dean responded.

“I want to give you this,” said Roman, holding out a wad of cash that made Dean’s eyes open wide. “But you gotta promise me something.”

Dean shrugged. “What?”

“You gotta promise me you won’t try to get to California. Promise me you’ll use it to go back home.”

Dean looked at him and didn’t tell him that from now on, “home” was a wrestling ring to him. Oh, he’d use the cash to get back to Cincinnati, sure. But Cincinnati was only a pitstop on the way to home now. “I’ll go back to Ohio,” he said. “I promise.”

Roman reached out and dragged him into a hug, squeezing so hard that Dean blinked. “Good. And thank you.”

Dean had no idea why Roman was thanking him, but he took the wadded-up bundle of bills and crammed it into his pocket. “Well,” he said. “Take care.”

And then he turned and ran into the bus station without looking back before he could say anything else.

Later, on the bus, he stared at the few crinkled bills left over from the ticket. It would be enough to buy a good solid meal on the way back.

Or, he thought, he could start saving up to afford some wrestling lessons.

He shoved the money back in his pocket and ignored the growling of his stomach all the way back to Cincinnati.

* * *

Later they’d all feel pretty stupid that they didn’t recognize each other right away. Sure, they had some excuses: it had only been one day, long ago. And they were all going by different names when they met again in Florida. Still, you’d think--but they didn’t.

Not until they finished their first promo and Seth suddenly held out his fist, and Roman and Dean put out their fists too, and they came together like an oath, or a promise, or a memory.

They stared at each other.

And then they started to laugh.


End file.
